They give in to threats.'
'We have to take the philosophy of the Arabs, David,'
'And we have hostages, and we must use them.'
'If we want to see Israel, David.'
' If we are to force them, if they must bow to us, «, but then it will be a long road…'
' It has been a long road already.'
'You know what it means, Isaac? If we are to go on, if we are to succeed?'
' I know what it means. I understand, 8
'We must use the passengers…'
' I understand that.'
How docile they sit, how quiet, and they do not know what I have talked of, what David has accepted, what I know. Like the Jews of old. Do not know they are no longer just human beings, that their destiny has forsaken them, that they have become casualties that will fall if our will does not rise supreme over that of the people that we will face. Ex-pendable… and how many of them? How many to be taken before we convince the people on the ground that we are travelling to Israel? One? Perhaps the Italian, the man who sits in the middle of the front row of the group, who cannot look at me, who has the capped teeth and the silk tie; would he be enough to convince them? Perhaps the schoolmaster – perhaps we will need two? With his glasses that do not hide the way he stares back at me, not because he is brave and has courage but because he is afraid to lose face in the presence of the children. If we kill him as well, will that bend them?
Take a third, and why not? The American with his bleeding head and the handkerchief that his wife has wrapped around it, who seems like a farmer now in the field with his hay who must stop the sweat coming from his scalp to his eyes. Why not him also, if they hesitate, if they wish to test us? And the children, what of the children, Isaac? A wave of nausea rose up from his stomach. A terrible shame, a humiliation that the thought should even come to him. He had made David say it first, led him to the cliff face, defiled him, nagged him, pressured him, till they had come together to the ultimate – the children. And what if their will is stronger than ours, if they do not bend? How many do we kill to find out the temper of their resolution? He seemed to shrug to himself, disengaging from David. It will not be so, we will have the fuel. They will give us the fuel.
A full-measured, slowed, leaden-paced hour since they last came to the back of the plane to see her. Only the seat tops to look at, and the hands on people's heads, and the occasional stolen glance over the shoulder to see that she was still there – that the pistol was in her hand. There was hatred on some faces when they looked back, something they would not dare when Isaac was watching them, not since he had struck the American. But that was an hour back, and they looked differently at Rebecca, because she was a girl, just a girl, and had no right to be feared. But they do not come and talk with me, leave me here, isolated, ignored, searching the length of the plane to lip-read their whispers far away as they meet in the corridor outside the cockpit. Because I screamed, is that why I am not to be trusted? she thought. Have I less strength than the others, and is that the only currency they value, strength whatever that may be, man's strength, their stupid, ignorant puerile virility? David has screamed too, and I heard it, heard it the length of the plane, heard it with all the passengers and seen their heads jump up like those of jerked marionettes and subside cautiously again when calm returned to the cockpit area. They loathe me, these people, they would like to stamp and kick and pummel the life out of me, beat and beat till each bone is broken; that is the revenge they seek, and only the gun prevents it. Only the squat and polished security of the gun holds them back, because that is what they fear.
The head teacher's hand raised.
Like all the teachers she'd ever known. In his best clothes because he was taking the children somewhere, would have polished his shoes, selected his best shirt. A compilation of Soviet virtues, preaching the Love of the Motherland, Indus- triousness and Frugality, Friendship and Comradeship, Love of Studies and Consciousness. Teacher's hand raised. Ludicrous, the classroom table turned.
The children want to relieve themselves, Miss.'
Of course they do. Don't we all?
The children have been very patient, Miss. They have waited a long time.'
Just like the American. Called her 'Miss' because she had the gun, put his sharp bony knee in her crutch if she didn't have it, and kick her, and kick her, and kick her. She looked for Isaac, but he was lost from sight again. Lost in the bloody cockpit where with David he spent all his time, time when he should have come and told her what was happening, what the descents had meant, why they had not landed, why they had flown on. Was it like the American had said – that there wasn't a red carpet, that nobody would want them? What was the word he'd used? 'Pariah', that was it. A beast that fed off the scraps, that turned the nose of people, an outcast, something set aside. Could have called her a Jew, couldn't he? Same thing, what he meant, but nobody said what they meant, not while she held the pistol.
'Miss, the children have been very patient, most patient. There can be no harm in their going to the lavatory.'
No sign of Isaac, and anyway what harm could there be from it? That was what they had left her there for, because they had problems to wrestle with in the cockpit. It was not out of choice that they had left her there, but for a reason. David must have had a reason, Isaac too. She was being stupid, playing the idiot, and they had left her in charge and given her responsibility. Above the droning power of the engines that permeated the insulated cabin she shouted her answer to the schoolmaster.
'They can come in threes. Just the children to start with. They must come from each block of seats at a time, and the next will follow only when the previous three have finished'
She pushed the soft drinks trolley end-on to the aisle so that there was a gap through which the children could pass, and the first three rose and hurried towards her, relief written on their faces.
Thank you, Miss,' the head teacher called to her from his seat, craning round, watching the procedure, watching her.
Disciplined children. The product of the System and the Pioneers, taught at school to conform and to show respect, bobbing their heads with acknowledgment as they passed her on their way to the three rear toilets, and another conveyer- belt expression of gratitude when they came back into the cabin and moved to their seats. Bright faces, scrubbed with soap and short hair for the boys, neat ribbon-tied pigtails for the girls. A few years back, and that's what she had been, not different, not separated – until she had met David, before she had known Isaac and learned the power of a polioeman's pistol, the pistol that was in her hand. They regarded the gun as she passed but were too well-mannered to stare at it, too well-schooled to give it more than a glance.
Eleven years old most of them, twelve a few, and now regimented and able to hide their fear of the gun under the umbrella of childish curiosity. Doing what they had been told to do.
The head teacher was out of his seat and walking towards her holding loosely the hand of a child, leading him and coaxing him towards the gap between the trolley and the galley wall.
He said quietly, a voice that would not embarrass and attract attention. This one, Miss, he has a kidney problem. There is equipment under his clothes, and I must help him.'
She let him pass, scenting the damp perspiration of his body under his suit as he pushed through the narrow entrance that was available. She turned to watch them disappear inside the toilet door, saw the 'Engaged' sign light up, and twisted herself back again, easy and relaxed so that she faced the front, dominating her passengers.
She was not aware of him as he came close to her back, had no sense of his proximity, was concerned only with the woman and the mewling baby who was rising from her seat far to the front. She understood nothing of his plan till his hands were on her.
The baby crying, always that bloody child crying… and then the sudden, panic-stricken fear, coming alive in a single moment. One hand across her mouth and fingers squeezing against her lips so that she could not scream, shovelling the ends with the clipped dirt-tasting nails between her teeth so that she could not bite, and the other hand clawing for her right wrist and seeking to break the grip that held the gun. Had to get the hand from her mouth, had to scream, had to give warning, tumbling through her mind the need to arouse the others who were at the front, and all the time the fingers in her mouth choking at her, denying her air, and the grip on her wrist was vice-tight and closing so that the blood could not pass, her muscles not respond. Others in front of her, coming from their seats, gigantic, looming, fearsome… and she was falling… another of the schoolmasters, one that she took for a farmer, and a boot caught her flush to the bone of the shin causing her to buckle and collapse to the carpet of the aisle.
